


A bold and dangerous line (with this existence)

by BakedAppleSauce



Series: God might be dead, but we aren't yet [1]
Category: True Detective
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, everybody is having a lot of feelings, this is just very soft ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 08:22:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21335167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakedAppleSauce/pseuds/BakedAppleSauce
Summary: It probably should be awkward, because, well, it is an awkward situation, at least in theory. Marty has been considering the possibility that after everything that has transpired between the two of them, there might just not be any potential for real awkwardness left. To be perfectly honest, Marty has never… considered Rust before, if you will. In that way. Or any way really.This is a lie.
Relationships: Rustin "Rust" Cohle/Martin "Marty" Hart
Series: God might be dead, but we aren't yet [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1594621
Comments: 33
Kudos: 181





	A bold and dangerous line (with this existence)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xJuniperx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xJuniperx/gifts).

“Shiiiit. Now look who's decided to make an effort,” Harrison murmurs at around ten in the morning, sounding almost impressed, which is the first and only warning Marty gets before Rust ambles into the PI office. 

So far, he categorically refuses to sign any contract of employment; doesn't even want to be paid for “helping out”, as he calls it, and accepts the checks Marty writes him for outside consulting with the begrudging air of an elderly person being offered an unwanted seat in public transport. Nevertheless, Marty keeps doing it. 

Somebody on this planet has to look out for Rust Cohle and if past experience is anything to go by, it’s not going to be the man himself. 

He’s wearing a decent shirt today, a bit wrinkled but still presentable enough, with his sleeves meticulously rolled up as always. Rust wears clothes until they start falling apart, and then he goes out and gets more of the same exact thing in packages of threes or fives. Shirts, socks, underwear. Has appropriated a few of Marty’s things over the course of his recovery as well, which is one of those things they never, ever talk about. 

He’s got his ledger safely tucked against his side, car keys dangling from his fingers. He also looks… ten years younger. Marty stares at him for a few long seconds, dumbfounded, before he even realizes _ why _ that is – before the realization hits that Rust either must’ve cut his own hair or let somebody else do it for him, because it’s a lot shorter now. Still a bit shaggy and interspersed with a few strands of gray, but he looks… put together, almost. The mustache is gone, too. 

Well,_ shit, _Marty thinks to himself, not even sure why. There goes his peace of mind for the day. He nods a greeting at Rust and takes off in the direction of the coffee maker, keenly aware that Rust is following along. There’s already a cup sitting on Marty’s desk, actually, right next to his monitor, but that has to be mostly empty by now, he’s pretty sure. 

The office machine is one of those modern ones with the capsules, which are bad for the environment, but also so very practical – and anyway, Marty got it as a gift, so he’s not just going to throw it out. Rust catches up with him; leans one hip against the nearest filing cabinet and crosses his arms. He’s given Marty the environmental speech more than once already and now watches him push a capsule into the machine with half-lidded eyes, clearly unimpressed. 

“You want any?” Marty says and presses the button. 

“Nahhh,” Rust says. 

Marty makes a non-committal noise in response and stares at the coffee maker for a few seconds, and then he can’t help but ask, “You change your hair or something?”

“Barber down the street,” Rust says with a shrug. “Fifteen bucks.”

“Looks good,” Marty says before he can stop himself, which, whatever. It’s the truth, it does. So sue him. 

At that, Rust gets an expression on his face that is… something. Not uncomfortable, because by God, after all this years Marty knows exactly what _ that _ looks like, but… _ something. _ Taken aback, maybe. Carefully fishes his packet of cigarettes out of his back pocket, before he half-mumbles, “Wasn’t going for that.”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t worry too much,” Marty says. “You wanna keep people from throwing themselves at you, you still got your personality for that.” He straightens his shoulders and turns towards Rust, looks him up and down once in an exaggerated manner. “Look at you. Like an actual member of society.”

Rust raises an eyebrow at him. “Social society is nothing but an arbitrary and superfluous construct,” he says, “...that forces people to be polite to each other on a daily basis despite the fact that there are no immediate benefits.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Marty says easily. “Did you get the impression I was tryin’ to be _ polite _right then?”

“Well,” Rust says and now he’s clearly amused, in that blank-faced way he has about almost everything in life. “All I'd say is, I know what it looks like when you're _ not _tryin’ to be polite, Marty.”

Which is undoubtedly true, but it’s not like he’s the only person who does, as much as Marty doesn’t like to think about that. 

* * *

Two days ago, they kissed in the middle of the kitchen. 

Although… _ kissed _probably doesn’t do it justice, Marty thinks, because for some reason, that sounds simultaneously too dramatic and way too tame for what actually happened. Since then, everything is the same and completely different at the same time, like two blueprints layered on top of each other; individual parts unchanged, but the end result amounts to something new and foreign.

Marty had just been standing there, buttering a piece of toast and minding his own business when Rust had shuffled into the kitchen and as always had made a beeline for their coffee maker. (Old fashioned, that one, coffee dripping down drop by drop like grains of sand in an hourglass.) He’s been staying at Marty’s house ever since they somehow got away with their great escape from the hospital – sleeping on the couch at first, using it as a makeshift sick bed, and in the guest room ever since he got better. 

Just… recuperated and then never left, because clearly, neither of them wanted that, and Marty only realized how many explanations and excuses he’d had prepared and ready to go when nobody asked about or so much as batted an eyelid at their particular arrangement. 

(A few weeks in, Marty came across those posters every pseudo-smart college kid likes to hang in their dorm rooms and spotted the one that had the whole _ “Nietzsche is dead.” _ joke printed on it in some horrible, stylized font. He bought it and taped it to the inside of the guest room door. Rust didn’t mention it once, but he hasn't taken it down either. Now it’s partly obscured by the one suit jacket he owns and a few flannel shirts hanging in front of it.)

That morning, Rust had been wearing old, faded sweatpants that had belonged to Marty at some point in the past, which was obvious for two reasons: One, Rust didn’t own any himself, and two, despite the fact that he’d tied the drawstring as tight as it would go, they seemed about two seconds away from sliding down his narrow hips. 

“Morning,” Marty had said.

“Mmmmhngh,” Rust had said and then he'd wrapped his fingers around the coffee cup already sitting out on the counter; and nevermind the fact that Marty had put that one there for himself. 

He doesn’t sleep a lot, least not as far as Marty can tell, but for some strange reason, in the mornings he still walks around like he’s not entirely awake yet, uncoordinated and mostly silent, save the occasional disgruntled noise. 

“Help yourself,” Marty had said and he distinctly remembers _ trying _to sound sarcastic, but it probably just came out sounding very sincere. Because, well, at its core, it was – if Rust wanted that coffee cup, he could fucking have it, who was Marty to deny him? 

Rust had just stood there, in his threadbare wife beater, coffee cup in hand, and blinked at Marty, presumably at a loss because the coffee wasn’t done yet, and then suddenly he’d leaned forward. And Marty had been confused at the time, because he honestly thought that Rust was trying to reach for something that might have been behind him. Except Rust had leaned into his personal space, easy as anything, and just… kissed him, a quick, dry press of their mouths together. 

Marty might have made a noise then, he’s not entirely sure about that. There’d been a hand touching his hip, fingers twisting into the fabric of his T-shirt, and he’d realized then that he must’ve closed his eyes at some point, because he could _ feel _the touch, but everything was dark and felt like it was floating away. 

Then Rust had jerked away like he’d been pushed back, or maybe like he’d gotten an electric shock or something, and when Marty finally managed to open his eyes, Rust had been blinking at him almost comically slow, looking wide-eyed and shocked. Marty’s brain had still been stuck on the kiss, a strange static in his ears. He could feel his heartbeat hammering in the back of his throat.

“Ermm…” he’d said, which wasn’t exactly eloquent or helpful in any way, and Rust seemed to agree, because he had swallowed, which had sounded obscenely loud in the morning-quiet kitchen and then he’d turned around and fled the room. 

Marty wasn’t sure he’d ever seen him move this fast in a situation that wasn’t actually life or death. He could still feel the press of Rust’s mouth on his, hot and final, like a weirdly enjoyable chemical burn, and only when the coffee maker started beeping did he realize that Rust had taken the empty cup with him. 

They haven’t talked about it since. 

It probably should be awkward, because, well, it_ is _ an awkward situation, at least in theory. Marty has been considering the possibility that after everything that has transpired between the two of them, there just might not be any potential for real awkwardness left. To be perfectly honest, Marty has never… _ considered _ Rust before, if you will. In that way. Or any way really. 

This is a lie. If nothing else, the strange feeling in the pit of his stomach that's rolling through him like waves every single time Marty thinks that exact same thought – how he has never thought about Rust that way before, no sir – tells him he absolutely _ has _ thought about it and is trying his best to ignore the result. 

Marty’s never tried to claim his quest for self-improvement was going _ well, _ but most days he would like to believe he's not _ quite _the same clueless asshole he was ten years ago. 

* * *

People keep noticing the haircut for the rest of the day. 

It’s a bit of a relief, almost, because it means Marty’s not the only one who did a double take. Not that there are tons of people Rust interacts with enough on a regular basis for them to notice anything, but there’s a few. Rust seems… mostly surprised and maybe a bit irritated by the attention. Like he didn’t expect anybody to realize or not to say anything at least, which is fair enough, Marty supposes. 

They eat lunch at their semi-regular diner and when the waitress comes over to take their order, she stops dead in her tracks the second she spots Rust. 

“Oh wow,” she says, and Rust raises a barely-there eyebrow at Marty, _ here we fucking go again. _ Like Marty’s in on the joke with him, which… Marty supposes he is, just by default. 

“You look different!” she says. It’s the good kind of different, Marty can tell, no awkward pause before she says it, clearly implying that whatever _ is _different seems a lot better now than it did before. 

For a moment, Marty is genuinely worried Rust's going to start with the flat circle again, tell her he's had this haircut a million times before, because everything is just hell-bent on repeating itself after all – which would be bad, because Marty really would like to order some food sometime today. 

But Rust just gives her a wordless shrug, corner of his mouth twitching upwards, only looking a little pained. For some unfathomable reason he seems to get away with that without seeming rude – a small miracle in of itself, really, since usually people seem to take offense at Rust’s entire being at the drop of a hat. Maybe it is the damn haircut after all. 

Over lunch, Marty tries very hard not to think about the one thing his mind has kept wandering off to at the most inopportune moments for the last two days; namely trying to figure out whether he thinks Rust is attractive or not. Except that’s not true either, because the simple answer to that question would be... yeah. Yeah, he does, always has, even way back when, during the time Marty could barely admit anything to himself at all. 

He realizes Rust is staring at him over his mountain of chili fries, which is one of his usual orders, because Rust Cohle has the palate of an actual seventeen year old stoner. 

Fuck, Marty thinks. Did he just miss something? 

“What?” he says and then, to cover for how awkward he feels, “Can I help you with something?”

“Nahh,” Rust says. He pops a fry into his mouth and says, unabashedly chewing, "You ever think about how weird it is? The shit people decide to pay attention to? There’s fuckin’ _ wolves _living among them and they don’t even care enough to notice. You ever think about that?”

“Every damn day,” Marty says, very sarcastically. “Very first thing on my mind every morning. Right after I’ve considered all the other depressing shit that’s going on in the world.”

“Well,” Rust drawls. “We're not here in order to enjoy ourselves.”

“You mean life in general or this here diner in particular?” Marty says. “Because I'm pretty sure that nice waitress lady over there would take great offense if she heard you making that kinda claim.”

“So don't tell her, then,” Rust says with another casual shrug and eats another fry, which should be irritating and for some reason ends up being endearing instead.

“Ignorance being bliss and all that, huh?” Marty says. 

“You of all people would know, I guess,” Rust deadpans, and then watches Marty take a fry off his plate in retaliation with mild interest. And maybe he’s not _ quite _smiling, but there’s a faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes, which has to count for something, Marty supposes. 

* * *

That evening, they’re in the living room, college football playing on the TV, volume turned down low. Rust is sprawled in the armchair, absentmindedly dissecting the newspaper like somebody else might pluck a flower apart. His attention is on the game and whatever Marty is doing, even though he’s pretending otherwise, Marty can tell. 

“Rust,” he says after a while. “C’mere for a second.” 

It’s a ridiculous request to make, because Marty’s just on the couch, not even six feet away – not like they can’t have a perfectly fine conversation if they stay in their respective corners. Marty’s not even sure why he said it. 

“You giving me fuckin’ orders now?” Rust says, but he sounds vaguely curious instead of angry, and then he gets up and ambles over to the couch, sitting down next to Marty without protest. Perfectly calculated distance as well, close enough to suggest familiarity, not close enough to suggest… anything else. 

This feels almost strangely parental, Marty thinks suddenly, Rust just sitting there, long fingers intertwined in his lap, looking at him expectantly. Like it's up to Marty to lead this conversation. Marty wonders if he can tell what this is going to be about. 

The silence drags on between them, turning more and more telling by the second. This is it, moment of truth, and for some strange reason, they both know it. 

“Look,” Rust murmurs eventually and he's being all non-confrontational about it, eyes fixed on Marty's chest instead of his face, in that way he always does it when he wants to convince people he's not a threat. “It ain't… Got nothin' to worry about from me, alright. I wasn't-” 

“The fuck would I be worried about,” Marty interrupts, blurts it really, which is not what he meant to say at all, and also sounds a bit like he’s putting up a front, trying to cover up his insecurities with bravado, except… well. He really means it. Rust can probably tell, because he looks faintly embarrassed now.

“Dunno,” he says with a shrug that resembles the one he gave the waitress at the diner. “Just… you don’t owe me nothing, Marty. You don’t-”

“Oh, I’m fucking aware of that,” Marty says, even though that isn’t technically true. He _ does _ owe Rust, couldn’t even say for what exactly if anybody asked, just that he _ does _and that he doesn’t even seem to care.

“So, what, ermm…” he continues awkwardly, when it becomes clear that Rust isn’t going to say anything more, and then stops and has to clear his throat like an idiot. “What exactly d’you… have in mind? I mean-”

“Anything you want,” Rust says immediately, low and insistent.

He’s not just saying that, Marty realizes with a mix of surprise and something that feels a lot like terror, he’s completely and utterly serious about it. _ Christ. _ Why the fuck did he pick Marty for this? Marty’s a bull in a porcelain shop on the best of days, and that is when he’s actually _ trying. _

“That’s one hell of a sales pitch,” is what he says out loud. “Don’t have to be all dramatic like that, huh? Think we both know I’m pretty fucking easy.”

Rust snorts, sounding surprised, and then tilts his head a bit, conceding the point. He’s noticeably not looking at him, at least not directly – stares down at Marty collarbone instead, keeping perfectly still. Marty suddenly realizes he's waiting on _ him; _ is making himself available, wants Marty to do something about this, maybe because he already made that first move, almost three days ago in the middle of their kitchen, so it’s Marty’s turn now, apparently. 

Marty is kissing him before he's even finished that thought, surprising himself. 

It's pretty awkward at first. Nothing goes wrong, not technically, but still, for the first few seconds it just feels like two people on a couch, pressing their mouths together. Then Marty pulls back a bit, feels like he can't really go anywhere, drawn forward by some strange, magnetic pull again almost instantly, and then Rust makes a low sound and it's all over, Marty crashes into him and they're off, they're _ kissing. _

It almost comes as a shock – the force of it, the _ energy, _ whatever you'd like to call it. Rust is clutching at him like a man drowning might hold onto a piece of driftwood, fingers digging into Marty's bicep hard enough to bruise, his other hand wrapping around the back of Marty's neck. 

Marty loses track of what his own hands are doing for a bit, too busy sinking his teeth into Rust's lower lip, working his mouth open and sucking at his tongue, mindless and possessive. Rust just _ lets _ him, no resistance at all, which… _ fuck. _ Fuck, Marty thinks, he fucking wants him, no point in denying that any more, he wants and wants and _ wants. _

He becomes aware at some point that one of his hands has curled itself around Rust's neck, holding his jaw in place, the other one's snuck around Rust's waist, fisting the fabric at the small of his back, pulling him in, keeping him close. Rust isn't making noise, not exactly, but he seems to vibrate from within, strange jitter going through him. When Marty stops for air, pushing their foreheads together, Rust is taking deep breaths that seem to shudder in and out of him like somebody shaking a tin can with spare change. 

“Alright?” Marty manages, not even aware he was going to say that, and Rust seems to snap into action at the sound of his voice.

He pushes at Marty's shoulders, hard and insistent, and then clambers up onto the couch and into Marty's lap, a desperate blur of motion, limbs going everywhere. He makes it work somehow, folding himself down until he's impossibly close and then Marty is hauling him in as well, pulling him even closer with an arm wrapped around his waist, and they're kissing again

Rust is heavier than he looks, more to him than just sharp angles and fragile, stubborn bones – a lot heavier than Marty expected him to be, honestly, which makes him choke up for some reason, makes him feel all sentimental, so he shoves his hands underneath Rust's shirt, fits his palms over the cut of his hip bones, digging his thumbs into the skin. 

Rust twitches at that, surging forward. He's hard, Marty realizes. It's obvious, impossible to miss in those sweatpants he’s wearing; if Marty stopped to look down he could probably _ see _ it, could trace the outline of Rust's hard-on with his eyes. He tries to check in with himself, how he feels about that and is kind of weirded out by the fact he's not more weirded out. 

“Let me,” Rust pants against his mouth. “Let me, just- Marty-” trying to push away for some fucking reason, and then he falls completely silent, like he swallowed his own tongue, because Marty has slipped his hand down between them, pushes it right into Rust's pants and palms at his dick. 

The elastic is digging into his wrist a bit and the angle is not ideal, but it's fine, it doesn't even matter. Marty takes the hot length of him and presses it up against his stomach, gently rubbing at it with his palm. He can actually _ feel _ Rust get even harder at the touch, not just his dick but the rest of him as well, everything locking into place, muscles freezing up tight, trembling with tension. 

“Hmmm,” Marty says, a satisfied noise he didn't even plan on making at all, and he has no fucking idea what he's doing, but it doesn't seem to matter in the slightest. _ He _ certainly doesn't care, and maybe that should bother him more, but hey, it doesn't, so that's that for now. 

“Like that?” he can't help but say, voice unsteady. “Yeah? You like that?”

“Yes- shut up,” Rust groans, and he's moving against Marty's palm now, rolling his hips against the pressure with what seems to be pure instinct. “Just- _ fuck. _ Oh, Christ, _ fuck-” _

Once he starts, he can't seem to stop making noise either; deep, raw sounds from the the back of his throat, curses that almost sound like he's in pain. Marty kisses his cheek, his jaw, noses at his pulse point. He feels like maybe he should do something more, jerk him off, _ something, _ but at the same time he doesn't fucking dare disturb what's going on right now. 

Rust is digging his fingers into the backrest of the couch on either side of Marty's head, hard enough for the material to crease. He's an indecent sinewy line curved on top of him and Marty's fucking mesmerized – by the way he looks, by the way he sounds, by the way the skin of his fucking neck tastes underneath Marty's tongue. 

“Oh _ God,” _ Rust moans at that. “Oh, _ fuck, _ you-” 

So Marty does it again, scrapes with his teeth for good measure and then he wraps his hand around Rust's dick almost by accident; because Rust is _ shoving _ into his palm, and Marty doesn't even need to move his hand all that much, just turn it sideways a bit, curl his fingers and suddenly he's really holding him, tightening his grip on autopilot. 

Rust's dick feels rock hard and smooth and slippery wet at the tip and Rust makes a noise that sounds like somebody punched him in the stomach and then goes very silent as he starts coming. He's shaking through it like he's burning up in Marty's arms, comes sticky-hot between them like he's never going to stop. 

It’s a mess.

It’s a fucking mess and Marty doesn’t even _ care, _can’t bring himself to stop paying attention to him for one second – despite the fact he can’t even really see him like this, because Rust is too close, head hanging low, pressing his forehead against the spot where Marty’s neck meets his shoulder, effectively hiding his face from view.

Marty makes soothing noises against his ear, carefully rubs his free hand over Rust’s back underneath the T-Shirt.

“You’re alright,” he tells him, which probably is a dumb thing to say, because duh, stating the obvious; not even sure which one of them might need convincing. “Hm? You’re alright, sweetheart, it’s fine, s’all good.”

He doesn’t even notice the endearment until he’s said it out loud and then he _ does _have a short moment of panic, which is a pretty weird priority to have, probably, all things considered. Rust takes a breath that’s so deep it seems to be dragged up from the very bottom of his soul, and then noisily exhales against Marty’s shoulder, and the air ghosting over the side of Marty’s neck feels unbearably intimate for some reason. 

Then Rust sits back up again with an uncoordinated move – pushes himself away from the back of the couch with an arm that seems to be shaking still – and bumps his forehead against Marty’s again, like it’s too much effort to even try and hold his head up by himself. He’s got his eyes closed, Marty notices, right before Rust kisses him again, a slow, satisfied slide of his lips, and when Marty finally lets go of him, pulls his hand away to wipe come into the material covering Rust’s thigh, he can _ feel _the corner of Rust’s mouth tipping up. 

"Very classy, Marty.” 

He sounds _ wrecked, _voice scraped raw like it’s been dragged over asphalt for too long. 

“Yeah, well,” Marty says – kisses him in between, just because he can. “You know me, I’m a romantic at heart.”

Rust hums at that like it’s worthy of some thought, an argument to consider, and then suddenly, he’s in motion again, and before Marty can so much as protest he’s down on the floor; seems to just melt off Marty’s lap somehow, like there’s no tension left in his body and he can just slide into whatever space he goddamn wants.

“What’s this, then?” Marty says, staring down at him, heart pounding in his chest all of a sudden and trying not to let it show. Rust settles comfortably between his legs, both elbows propped on top of Marty’s knees, blinking up at him with heavy-lidded eyes, face still flushed from orgasm. 

His skin is warm to the touch when Marty drags his fingertips along Rust’s jaw, staring at him like he’s mesmerized and who knows, maybe he is. Then Rust lazily turns his head and licks at his palm, God only knows why, and Marty’s stomach flips clean over. This is happening, he thinks. He’s not misinterpreting anything. 

“Give you one guess,” Rust murmurs, right into Marty’s palm. “Ain’t that slow on the uptake, usually.”

“S’cuse you,” Marty says. “What’s that supposed to mean, _ usually-” _and then he can’t talk anymore, because Rust has bent his head down and is nuzzling the inseam of his thigh, starting at the knee and keeps going all the way up until he’s at eye level with Marty’s crotch. 

And yeah, Marty’s hard, it’d be pretty hard _ not _ to be at this point. Also, there’s come staining the bottom of his shirt, which Rust doesn’t seem to care about one bit. He licks at Marty’s erection just as lazily as he did his palm, and then bites down gently. It barely feels like anything through the fabric and still, it makes Marty’s dick _ twitch _inside his pants, because for some fucking reason it seems even more obscene like this, Rust acting like this is doing it for him, burying his face in the crease of Marty’s thigh.

Marty’s hand slips to the back of Rust’s head all by itself and when he tightens his grip, pulling on Rust’s hair just a bit, Rust inhales like he’s shocked and all of a sudden he’s in motion again, reaching for Marty’s fly. Then they’re both fumbling at it, getting in each other’s way, but they manage to get Marty’s pants open and pull everything down eventually; Rust going the extra mile and shoving everything past Marty’s knees and down to his ankles with an impatient look on his face. 

“You in a hurry, sweetheart?” Marty says, using the pet name again because he can’t really help himself, and there’s a definite reaction this time, impossible to miss – Rust’s eyes snapping up to meet his gaze, faint tremor running through him. He doesn’t say anything, though, just grabs for Marty’s wrist and guides Marty’s hand back to where it was before, sinking into the strands of his hair. 

Marty wants to say something else, maybe _ call _him something else as well, just to see what that is going to get him, but Rust doesn’t let him, because he licks at Marty’s dick with the flat of his tongue, root to tip, just once, as if to test the waters and then he looks back up again, like he’s checking in. 

Which… Marty has no idea what’s showing on his face right now, because he can’t seem to remember what thoughts even _ are _ at this very moment. It feels like all the blood is rushing out of his head with alarming speed, all of his attention solely focused on his dick all of a sudden. God, it’s been a long time. Rust seems satisfied with his findings, whatever they may be, because he bows down again and sucks Marty into his mouth and… _ fuck. _

_ Jesus fucking Christ. _

He’s done this before, Marty thinks, feeling dazed, whole body seemingly throbbing in time with his own heartbeat. There’s no other way. Rust knows what he’s doing, and he’s doing it _ well. _ Sucking Marty’s dick like he’s enjoying himself, too, which is a detail that has never failed to turn Marty on and this is no exception. He tries to breathe evenly, tries to control himself. His fingers want to tighten in Rust’s hair, want to control the pace, make him speed up. He wants nothing more than to shove up into the impossible heat of Rust’s mouth. Feels like he's been on edge _ forever, _ all of a sudden. 

Who knows, maybe he has. 

This isn't going to last long. Marty's already panting, rocking his hips a little, trying to follow the way Rust is moving his head up and down. He’s hollowing his cheeks in a way that’s fucking obscene, taking Marty so deep he has to feel it in the back of his throat and yet, there’s _ nothing, _ no adverse reaction, no gagging, nothing. If anything, he seems blissed out, loose and relaxed; making a soft, content hum from time to time. 

It would be impressive if it didn't make Marty think about how Rust might have gotten to this point, darkly wondering who or what came before to help him get this good.

The thought makes him tug at Rust’s hair again, makes him cup Rust's cheek and press his thumb against the corner of Rust’s mouth to feel the shift of skin, the movement of his lips and Rust makes another sound at that, a deep, muffled moan, and blinks his eyes open. He looks… out of it, almost, gaze hazy and pupil-dark and as soon as they lock eyes, he moans again. It feels fucking _ amazing, _ the sound reverberating right through Marty’s spine and up to the pleasure center of his brain.

“Jesus _ Christ,” _ he says, breathless. “How the fuck d’you get this good, just look at you-” which makes Rust reach out and fumble for Marty’s hand, clutching at Marty’s wrist like he needs something to anchor himself and for whatever reason, this is _ it. _

Marty stares down at him, at his messy hair and his wide eyes, at his sharp, familiar face and the lethargic curve of his mouth, slick with use and stretched wide around Marty’s dick, _ oh Jesus- _

Marty doesn’t even manage a warning, just twists his arm in Rust's grip and wraps his fingers around Rust's underarm and then he’s fucking coming, head thrown back and groaning up at the ceiling, breath hitching halfway through Rust’s name.

“Fuck,” he pants. “Oh,_ Jesus, _ Rus-” 

It's good. It's _ so _ fucking good. Rust swallows down everything because he is _ so fucking good _ as well. Marty might have said that last part out loud, he's not even sure. Doesn't matter anyway, _ fuck. _ Rust deserves to know, Rust deserves fucking _ everything. _

It takes him a while to calm down to the point where everything starts to make sense again. When he looks down, Rust is still clutching his wrist, staring up at him with a helpless, pleasure-drunk expression on his face. His mouth is still hanging open a bit, looking all wet and bruised, and he's touching his tongue to his lower lip, tracing it. 

It is quite possibly the hottest thing Marty has ever seen; more so because he's pretty fucking sure Rust isn't doing it on purpose – isn't trying to be sexy or anything like that. 

“Jesus Christ,” Marty says, well aware how weak his voice sounds and not caring in the slightest. He gently pulls at Rust’s hair again, before scratching over his scalp. 

“Nahhh,” Rust says, and then has to actually clear his throat. “S’all made up, man. Make believe. S’just me.”

Marty stares at him, trying not to laugh. “Did you just… _ seriously? _Fucking unbelievable. Get up here.”

Rust gets back onto the couch with the same strange, languid grace he does everything with, once he stops paying minute attention to his surroundings and how he might fit into them; presses himself all along Marty’s side, as shameless as a cat.

There’s some kind of ad playing on TV now.

Marty tucks himself away, because well, he’s starting to feel a bit ridiculous. They’ll have to properly clean up anyway at some point; but not yet, he thinks, trying not to glow with satisfaction at the warm, heavy weight leaning into him. 

“Hey, Rust,” he murmurs eventually. “You ever think about how weird it is, the shit people pay attention to?”

“Nahh,” Rust drawls immediately, cutting Marty off before he can finish being funny. “Never. Who gives a fuck.”

“Yeah,” Marty says slowly, grinning to himself. “Yeah, I guess.”

He’s not wrong, ultimately, Marty thinks. Who even gives a fuck indeed. Not Marty, that’s who. The only thing he cares about right now is sprawled out right next to him, taking deep and even breaths; long, bony fingers carefully wrapping themselves around Marty’s wrist again, thumb tucking itself against Marty’s palm. 

“You alright?” Marty says, almost like an afterthought. 

“Yeah,” Rust says, so low it’s barely even audible over the quiet sounds of the TV. “Yeah, reckon I am.”

He sounds like he means it, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I did bastardize Nietzsche for the title. Sorry about that.  
(Also, boy oh boy is it weird, having to look up all of those quote in English.)
> 
> THIS IS DEDICATE TO [xJuniperx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xJuniperx/pseuds/xJuniperx) BECAUSE THIS IS ALL HER FAULT. SHE DRAGGED ME BACK INTO THIS SHOW KICKING AND SCREAMING. So here I am, five years late to the party and very unsure about everything this is trying to be.
> 
> I'm [bakedapplesauce](https://bakedapplesauce.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


End file.
